


an ever spinning wheel

by perdiccas



Category: Justified
Genre: Community: nvrleaveharlan, Friendship, Gen, shoot out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things never change. Tim tries to stay out of it as best he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an ever spinning wheel

**Author's Note:**

> Written for iniq, for the You'll Never Leave Harlan fic exchange, 2012.

When Tim pulls up, the front lawn is littered with boxes. Winona sits on the porch with her head hung low, looking for all the world like the proprietor of Kentucky's least successful yard sale. She's bigger now than when he last saw her, at the Marshall's office after Gary's murder, but it doesn't seem to have slowed her down any. She hoists one of the boxes up, resting it on her hip as she strides towards the pickup. She has it loaded into the back before Tim has even shut the door behind him. 

"Any reason you couldn't call a cab?" he asks, folding his arms as he leans back against the truck.

She huffs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ears. "I tried," she insists, grappling now with the folded up crib. "The driver took one look at me and all this and said I should work it out with the baby's daddy. Like good Christian people."

Winona rolls her eyes when Tim laughs.

He takes the crib from her, taking the time to secure it properly before he asks, "And you called me, why?" 

Winona shrugs. "You've got a truck," she says, never quite meeting his eyes.

 

Two weeks later, Tim finds himself at her new place, nestled in a quiet neighbourhood on the other side of Lexington. Upstairs, Winona is perched on the top rung of a ladder, cradling a drill in her lap. Plaster flakes dust the tarp covering the carpet. 

"Managed to get this all up by myself," she says by way of greeting, gesturing at a newly installed set of shelves. "But I can't do the painting. Even with the windows cracked, the fumes are more than likely to make the baby grow a second head."

Tim snorts, gently kicking at the can of paint. He tilts it back with the toe of his boot until he can read the label. 

Blue.

Winona continues, "The guy at the hardware store reckoned I could hire some of those high school kids who hang out by the movie theatre... You know the ones? To do it for me cheap but I guess the truant officer must have been around 'cause I couldn't find any. Figured you'd do instead."

"There hasn't been a truant officer in this district since 1987," Tim retorts dryly. "Budget cuts."

"How terrible," Winona counters, entirely unremorseful. Hell if she didn't have Tim pegged for this job since the moment the cashier handed over her receipt. “You gonna help? Since you’re already here and all...”

"Since I’m here," he acquiesces. The room is on the big side for a nursery; it’s the kind of a room a kid can spend eighteen years growing into. Tim grabs a roll of painter's tape and starts masking off the window frame. He can hear the ladder creak behind him as Winona carefully inches her way down. 

"You do know," he adds when she's got two feet solidly under her and firmly on the ground, "you're supposed to paint the walls _before_ you go drilling holes in 'em?"

Winona's face falls as she stares again at her handiwork. "Well, shit."

Tim's laughter seems to catch her by surprise. He takes the drill from her before she takes it upon herself to throw it at his head. "You've got beer, right?"

She shoots him a withering look. "I'm not a complete asshole."

 

"Raylan, I just got off the horn with the Marshall's office in Detroit. Word on the street is Theo Tonin's sending some men in our direction."

Raylan looks up from the report he’s typing. He leans back in his chair and ventures, "They coming down here to mop up Quarles's mess? Try a second shot at the Oxy business?"

"Could be,” Art allows, “but Detroit seems to think they're gunning for you in particular."

"Why me?"

Tim grins at the exasperated look on Art’s face. 

"You did help put down the man's son."

"Adopted son," Raylan objects, adding when Art glares, "Come on, it was nothing Theo wasn’t planning to do himself. Hell, last we heard he had a contract out on Quarles.” 

“Maybe he’s sending you a check for services rendered,” Rachel offers, her voice deadpan.

Tim smirks. “Hand delivered for that personal touch.”

Rachel’s desk phone rings, interrupting them but not before Raylan has a chance to protest, “Limehouse was the one who cut his arm off!"

"Be that as it may, Raylan, you're the one in their sights so I'd appreciate it if you at least made an attempt to stay out of their way."

Raylan sighs. "We expecting them any time soon?"

"Maybe sooner than you'd think,” Rachel says urgently, covering the mouthpiece of the receiver while she speaks. "911 just received a call from a woman, home alone, reporting a man with a gun walking up her driveway. She dropped the phone before the operator could get her name. Local PD are on their way but her description matches one of the Detroit thugs we told them to keep an eye out for."

Tim is already up, grabbing the flak jacket he keeps at his desk. Raylan is less than a second behind him, settling his hat low on his head. "You got an address?"

Tim’s stomach sinks as Rachel reads it out. 

"That's Winona's new place."

 

He braces himself against the passenger side door as they careen through the streets of Lexington. Raylan glares at him, sidelong, still managing to keep his eyes mostly on the road. “You wanna tell me why Winona’s not at her sister’s place, like she told me she was gonna be?”

“Hell if I know.” Tim shrugs. He can practically hear Raylan’s teeth grinding in reply. 

“Look,” he says, because truthfully he isn’t trying to rile Raylan up or be obstinate simply for the sake of it. “If she wanted to you know, I figured she’d tell you.”

“And if she didn’t?” Raylan grits. The hardness in his voice is something Tim’s not accustomed to hearing directed at anyone who’s not a fugitive from the law. 

“That’s none of my business.”

“That’s it?” Raylan growls, incredulously. “You help her move house, when she’s practically ready to pop out the baby and you didn’t think to ask her why she wanted to leave?”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Tim returns coolly, biting down on his irritation at being dragged into this mess, given the situation. “Old habits die hard.”

Raylan thumps the heel of his hand against the steering wheel in frustration. They’re nearing Winona’s neighbourhood and Tim scans the streets, looking for anyone or anything that suggests they’re dealing with more than one potential assailant. 

“You know as well I do, I start asking too many questions and there’s no telling if she wouldn’t just up and move again, _without_ leaving a forwarding address.”

“For Christ’s sake, Tim,” Raylan says, scowling at him, “she’s not some blushing debutante you have to lure in carefully in case you scare her off, coming on too strong! She’s the mother of my child!”

“No shit,” he finally snaps. “And now next time you get shot, we’re one step ahead of a BOLO to let her know your sorry ass is in the grave. I’m not your marriage—”

“We’re divorced.”

“—knocked-up-your-ex-and-now-you-can’t-keep-a-hold-of-her counsellor. Whatever domestic dispute you two are having, you can sort it out between yourselves once we have this jerkoff in custody.”

If Raylan has anything to say that, he swallows it when Tim barks, “Pull over here.” 

 

They split up. 

Tim picks his way carefully through the woods that abut Winona’s backyard. The house has wide picture windows and large French doors. From the peak of the knoll, Tim won’t have any trouble getting a clean shot.

He’s almost at the vantage point when he runs into Winona. Or more literally, she runs into him. 

“You being followed?” he asks quickly as he pulls her down into a crouch, hiding them both in the shade of a glade of trees. 

“No,” she says, still panting. “I called 911 and got the hell out as quick as I could. I don’t think he saw me leave the house.”

“And you ran out here?”

“What was I gonna do, run upstairs like the first dumb blonde to get axed in a horror movie?” Her words are tough but she hugs her belly protectively. When he grabs her hand to help guide her through the underbrush, her palm is slick with sweat.

“Let’s go, I’m gonna get you somewhere safe,” he says, keeping his voice low.

“Where’s Raylan?”

“Up at the house, looking for you.” He tugs her along when she pauses, looking back at the way they’d come. “Raylan can take care of himself,” he assures her.

“I know,” she says, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

Tim leads her towards the slip road into the woods where they’d left the car. When they get there, Raylan is waiting for them. 

The perp has a gun to his head.

“Really, Raylan?” Tim asks in exasperation. He keeps his gun trained on them and his body between Winona and the shooter. 

“Apparently,” he replies, dryly. He inclines his head slightly towards the gun at his temple. “He got the drop on me while I was searching the house.” 

“It’s a nice place,” the perp adds. Tim recognises the asshole from the files the Detroit office sent over when Quarles first reared his giant, ugly baby head in their jurisdiction. He’s a mid-level thug, a mafia enforcer going by the name of Valastro. 

“Thanks,” Winona pipes up, but she’s smart enough to stay back and out of the line of fire. 

“What now?” Tim asks.

“You here to slice my arm off?” Raylan goads him. “An arm for an arm? Because I gotta tell you, I wasn’t the one brandishing that cleaver.” And if Tim were in Raylan’s shoes, he’d refrain from giving the guy suggestions.

“You think this is about _Bobby_?” Valastro scoffs. He shakes his head. “Heck, everyone in Detroit is glad to see that creepy sonuvabitch six feet under. Listen, Mr. Tonin, he appreciates what you done, taking care of him and all but you threatened his kid to get it done. Come on, you know he can’t let that stand. How’d that look to the boys? So bam: here I am. I threaten your kid, let Sammy take a couple of pot shots at you to make him feel better and we’re all square.”

Raylan raises his eyebrows sceptically. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. I mean, we gotta take the little lady here along with us. Put a bit of fear of God into her, maybe have her watch when we rough you up, but no one’s gonna end up sleeping with the fishes. Mr. Tonin’s being very generous with this offer, so maybe you should think twice before you do something stupid.”

“An offer I can’t refuse, huh?”

Valastro rolls his eyes. Tim’s finger tightens on the trigger. “Eh, that’s kind of a cliché, so I didn’t like to say but sure, if that makes you feel better about it then why the hell not?”

Raylan looks Tim directly in the eye, holding his gaze as he says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Valastro replies, confused.

“Yeah, okay.” Raylan turns to face him, the barrel of the gun no longer flush against his head. “Let’s do this.”

Tim fires.

Valastro goes down in a single shot, but not before he squeezes off one of his own. “Shit,” Raylan bites out as the bullet zings past him, boring into the trunk of a tree behind him. Winona rushes towards him; Raylan meets her halfway.

“Shit,” Raylan says again. Tim looks up from where he’s crouched down, checking the body. “You got that asshole’s blood all over my windshield.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Nut up, cowboy.” He picks up Raylan’s hat from where it landed in the dirt in the scuffle and hands it over.

Tim cracks his knuckles, flexing the cramping muscles in his hand and squints through the trees in the direction of the house. He can hear the local PD tramping their way towards them, drawn in by the sound of gunfire. 

“Over here,” Raylan yells. “Deputy Marshall Gutterson dropped the perp. We’re fine.”

The officer in charge cocks his head, taking in the blood trickling down Raylan’s neck. “That’s an awful lot of blood for fine.” His radio crackles when he calls for medical assistance.

Raylan winces, “Really, officer, that’s not necessary. Bullet just nicked me on the ear, is all.”

He shakes his head, dismissing him with, “Protocol.” He turns to Tim instead, “You know the drill.” He holds out his hand expectantly, waiting for Tim to relinquish his firearm. 

 

They sit in the back of an ambulance while an EMT patches Raylan up. Winona is wrapped in one of those shiny blankets they give to hypothermia patients. She looks like a baked potato about to go in the oven. If weren’t for the fact her temper seems to be flaring at the same rate the adrenaline from the gunfight wears off, Tim would tell her. Raylan doesn’t have the same sense of self-preservation.

“Were you planning on sending me a change of address card?”

“I don’t know, Raylan. I was hoping maybe I could raise my child in a place where I don’t have to worry you’re gonna knock on the door at 2 am to regale me with tales of chopping a man’s arm off. But I guess that dream is shot to hell.”

“Winona-”

“I’ll be outside,” Tim says. They both ignore him as he removes himself from the situation. 

A few minutes later, Winona joins him.

“He needs stitches,” Winona offers as they stand, side by side, watching the ambulance pull away. 

Tim waits but she doesn’t elaborate. He asks carefully, “You still gonna be here when they let him out?”

She doesn’t answer either way and in all honesty, Tim’s not sure he’d rather she did. He doesn’t want to be the one to deliver a Dear John speech on her behalf if it goes that way; he doesn’t want to be here dealing with the next shit-stain Raylan pisses off if it doesn’t. 

“Come on,” he says gruffly. “I’ll sit with you until Raylan gets back.”

Winona looks up at him in surprise. “Don’t you have a report to file? You know, on account of killing a man?”

“Nah.” Tim shakes his head. “It’ll keep ‘til morning. Besides,” he adds with a grin, “I know where you keep the beer.”


End file.
